STRONGER THAN THE STORM

This year following Superstorm Sandy my trip to the Jersey Shore took on important new meaning. I fashioned myself as a sort of good will ambassador, meaning that on any given day it looks like my clothes are from a Goodwill bin. I elevated myself to just short of saint status for supporting the New Jersey economy one Coors Light at a time.

On the Garden State Parkway I thought of a fantastic way to decrease the state's tax deficit: sliding-scale tolls. The faster you fly through the EZ Pass, the more money it costs you- if you want to blow through the toll at 70 mph, let it cost twenty-five bucks. I bet people would pay it to shave a half-hour off their time, especially if they have kids.

I arrived in Belmar and started the usual song and dance of finding a parking space. In the middle of summer it's hard to park any closer to the shore than Flemington. I double-parked with my emergency flashers on, then hit the beach so I could find a family that looked like they might be prone to have an accident of some sort that would cause them to leave.

"Dude- your kid looks like he might be sick," I helpfully interject, hoping to speed things up.
"Why did you think that's my kid? First of all he looks Oriental, even though he is obviously useless in math, he sucks at sports except for things they don't offer scholarships in, like badminton, and look at that sand castle- he might be borderline retarded."
"That's not your kid?"
"It is my kid but from a previous marriage so I don't care about him as much."
"Oh. So you're not leaving? Incidentally you're not allowed to say 'Oriental' or 'retarded' anymore. Or 'badminton.' You have to use the phrases, 'westerly-challenged,' 'Jets fan' and 'volleyball-retarded.'"

That was a failure so I make a couple more laps around the block in my car looking for someone I can follow to their car and wait for them to leave, but by mistake I follow someone who is speed-walking. I just assumed they were trying to lose me, and I ended up driving for four miles in the opposite direction from the beach.

When I got back even more spaces were taken. I saw a bunch of tree branches in front of a house and thought to myself, "holy crapezoids- they are still rebuilding from Superstorm Sandy!" But it was just some guy pruning his rhododendron. So I moved the branches aside, parked, then covered my car with the branches as camouflage.

It was time for my inspection of the beach, important work in this troubled time. They are trying to rebuild the dunes, so they roped off areas where they can grow the sea grass, and no one goes in there. I thought that it would be a great place to grow medicinal marijuana, since even the cops don't want to destroy ecology. Another great idea I had for New Jersey's finances- so far I am two for two.

I was thinking they could raise the price of a beach tag from $7.00 to 26 billion, that way they just need one guy to go to the beach and bingo: budget shortfall gone. An idea MACHINE I am.

I was assessing the damage to the shore from my beach chair/ office. I noticed minor erosion of the beach, but none affecting anyone's hair, nails or tits. There were fewer lifeguards due to salary cutbacks, so you had to swim within a two-foot sliver of surf. They could not afford whistles this year, so instead they just held up a sign that said, "If you can't see this you are TOO FAR OUT!"

I decided to stroll the beach and enjoy a nice quiet walk. The familiar scenes are comforting to me, a group of girls throwing a football around (none catch it though); toddlers running away from their parents, practicing for when they are teenagers; A young mother spraying so much suntan lotion onto her baby that when she goes to pick it up it squirts out of her hands and lands in somebody's bag of potato chips. I think that this place really is stronger than the storm, because it's the people that make a place so interesting, and I let myself get lost in the sights and sounds... Then I realized I really was lost since all beach umbrellas looked just like mine.


Incidentally, if you get caught in a riptide, you should swim parallel to the shore, preferably the one you came from. Don't try to fight the currents. It's like being mugged: don't try to be a hero, just give them your wallet, your jewelry, your iphone and any valuable sculptures you happen to be carrying. If you have any silverware fork that over too. Once you're free of all that crap life will seem simpler, and then you can just swim back to shore at a leisurely pace.

DON’T PARK IN THE DRIVEWAY

I like to make a memorable entrance to a party, and I want to do it NOW, before my friends get Alzheimer's and can't remember it. The best way is to come in with a BANG. That bang you heard was me parking my wife's car on top a small, medium-sized large rock. The rock itself wasn't that big, but it had a pointy top, and looked a little like that thing the Titanic ran into.

My intentions were good. There were a zillion cars parked in the driveway already, because we arrived late as usual. That is why whenever we ask, "What can we bring?" no one ever says hors d'oeuvres. I did not want to get involved in the whole driveway imbroglio. You should NEVER park in the driveway unless the host is a total a-hole with no friends.

So I do what I always do and say, "Honey, you get out here and I'll park the car somewhere safe." My wife already knows that my sense of danger is unparalleled, and so is my parking.

Meanwhile, this guy lives in the woods, where everybody thinks they're a big hero for not paving the road. That way their horses won't get a big pain in the asphalt, or whatever.

So the non-driveway parking options were limited at best. But I spotted the perfect Acura-sized clearing in the woods, like the Pilgrims had hewn it into the land just for me! The only potential problem was that rock sitting in the middle of it- it was more like something between a stone and a boulder.

I even got out to survey the rock. I did some quick calculations in my head, involving square roots, cosines and the Pythagorean Theorem. I got a 425 on my math SAT, so I didn't really know the Pythagorean Theorem from a hole in my ass.

I didn't want to get the car stuck in the soft Earth, so I revved the engine to about 6,000 RPMs and popped the clutch. I vaulted up the hill and would have launched the car into a treetop had I not planted the skidplate of the Acura dead center on top of the rock. If I had thought to factor the soft Earth idea into my calculations, I probably would have been okay. I put it into reverse, but by that time both wheels were spinning away on either side of the rock without a care in the world.

I got out of the car and panicked when I saw some smoke, but then I realized it was coming from my wife's ears. Yes she was angry with me, with that look that made me wonder if my organ donor card was properly filled out. I was angry too, with those dick-brains at Acura for designing a car with such crap ground-clearance.

I had this vision of a big hole in the oil pan, spewing bubbling crude as if Jed Clampett just shot a hole in it looking for some food. By the way, who looks for food by shooting holes in the goddamn ground?

My wife was already dialing AAA, or so I assumed, unless it was a good divorce lawyer in the event that the car wasn't the only thing on the rocks. I said no- let's try and get some of the party guests to help us push the car off the rock. I can't be the only idiot who has ever done this. My wife gave me that look that lets me know that she thinks I am something of a pioneer in the field of idiocy.

Since we're two and a half hours late, everyone is experiencing varying degrees of sobriety.

"Listen, folks, we're going to need some help, our car is on a rock."
"your car is in Iraq?"
"Oh man..."
"Not Oman- he said it's in Iraq...."
"No I ran it onto a rock."
"Iran? I thought you said it's in Oman?"

I immediately drank four beers so that we could all converse in the same language.

We recruited three volunteers to push the car, and approximately forty people followed us outside because they could not believe that we could pull this off without doing something life-threatening or mildly entertaining, or both.

Tom, sensing the opportunity to somehow extract his car from the driveway quagmire, started an avalanche of events that was nothing short of epic. At that moment, someone else had to leave the party. Three others had just arrived to the party, barricading both the driveway and the exit to my rock.

Everyone who was not involved in the rock fiasco was looking for whoever had the car that was blocking them in.

"Who brought the Cougar?"
"That's my wife, dipshit."
"Is that your Escort?"
"That's my wife's sister, fuckface."
"So you drove the Midget?"
"That's my kid, and I'm about to put your face where your ass used to be."

All of a sudden every vehicle, large and small, was fired up and moved 12 feet in whatever direction could most efficiently block the way of two other vehicles. Four other cars with no dog in the fight chose the exact moment to approach the area from different directions. It was a Rubik's cube of cars. It was a vehicular vortex. It was a motorized maelstrom.

Somebody's Dodge narrowly dodged a Ram, and vice-versa. Somebody's Mustang nearly ended up in a Rodeo. Somebody's Impala narrowly escaped a Safari.

The situation subsided for short window of opportunity, but there was an SUV with its lights on directly in back of my rock. When I looked in the driver's seat I noticed that she was using the valuable moment to floss her teeth while smoking a cigarette, something that I had not previously thought possible. I believe that she may have been dentally retarded.

We were finally ready to heave the car back onto level ground. There was much negotiation about exactly what "on the count of three" means. Not everyone at the party spoke perfect English, so the numbers also needed to be translated. I started the count: "One.... Two...." Everyone by that time was pretty tired of the whole operation and pushed the car off the rock before I even got to two-and-a-half.

It's a week later and my wife still gives me a derisive look when I tell the story, but say what you will; that rock is one of the few places I have parked that I didn't get a ticket.

Incidentally, the ground clearance of an Acura TSX is 5.9 inches.

NORTHWEST VACATION CONTINUED- Part II

Our siege of the Pacific Northwest continued as we rented a car to head down to Seattle. I wanted to use Enterprise car rental- “We’ll pick you up!” My plan was to call their office in Seattle, and tell them to pick us up in Vancouver. Enterprise had a few choice words about my plan, and I was surprised at some of their choices. Soon we were on the lovely Chuckanut Drive, which hugs the Washington coastline and ends up not far from the Skagit River, which, as our luck would have it, was where the Skagit River Bridge was sitting.

Our hotel was not far from the Puget waterfront. We walked over to catch the Underground Tour of Pioneer Square. It tells the story of one storey: After the Great Seattle Fire of 1889, the entire district was rebuilt on the second floor. Why? Because of the overflowing Crappers, of course. The new flushable commodes developed by Thomas Crapper backed up every time there was a tidal surge from the Puget Sound, creating a rat problem and a cholera nightmare. Now, a system of tunnels under the streets give access to the original brick facades of businesses long extinct.

We headed to Seattle Center and up the Space Needle, which doesn't have as much room as you would think, given the name. We returned on the monorail, another leftover from the 1962 World's Fair, when the idea of going four miles an hour seemed quite magical.

The Seattle Duck Tour was fun- a refurbished LST craft from World War II retrofitted with a quacking horn rolls through the city streets, then splashes into the water. How we would have frightened the Germans if we had only thought of the quacking horns in 1942. We trolled around Lake Washington, admiring great rear views of the skyline. We saw the huge houseboat where they filmed "Sleepless in Seattle." I wouldn't have gotten any sleep either- what if I forgot I was on a houseboat and went out to cut the lawn? Even worse because I have an electric mower.

We went to the famous Pike Place public market, where the merchants toss the fish around the stall with each order. No one was seriously injured but we didn't press our luck by going to the knife store.

Before hitting the road to Portland we stopped into the Seattle Aquarium, where we watched those ever-insouciant otters at play. They are always up to something, but I did beat one of them at a game of dice when the staff wasn’t looking. I won three fish and a watch.

In Portland, our last destination, we went out for a beer, which is an embarrassing undertaking. Did you want a wheat beer? What about a fruit selection, or one of our fine blonde ales? At the tavern we went through the entire list of what they were "pouring," from Eugene City Brewery Honey-Orange Wheat ale to Laurel Wood Organic Tree Hugger Porter. It was the first time I ever wished I was Archie Bunker.

On Wednesday we took a free walking tour through eastern downtown area. We learned much about the quirky lifestyle of Portlandia. The town was founded by two men from different cities, who flipped a coin to decide which one they would name it for. The other guy was from Boston, and if the coin had landed "tails," we would be standing in Boston, Oregon, and the traffic would be a hell of a lot worse.

From the Thompson Elk statue (which looks unlike an elk but much like a deer with a thyroid issue) to the Benson Bubblers (iconic public four-station water fountains found around the city), Portland abounds with whimsy. Did you know that in the mid-1800s visiting sailors were drugged, taken captive and forced aboard ships bound for China to work as slave crewmen? That is where the term "Shanghaied" originated, and parts of the underground "Shanghai Tunnels" where these men were kept are still there. I’m not sure the expression would have survived had the men been taken instead to the town of Cockermouth in England.

We rented bicycles for our ride through Washington Park. And by ride I mean that I pushed the bikes up massive hills while my wife cursed at me in a foreign language she does not even speak.

The Rose Garden at Washington Park is a test garden, which is like a zoo for different varieties from around the world. It must have been a multiple choice test, because there were zillions of them, all hoping to someday be in the tournament of roses, where they all get together and try to kill each other. Here we were able to stop and smell the roses; so much different than Seattle, where you wake up and smell the coffee.

A formal Japanese Garden is also an attraction at the park, and it is a great place for contemplation and deep thought. Here, as I reflected near the Poetry Stone I wondered: does Eastern philosophy make me look fat??

We had lunch at one of over 400 of Portland's famous food trucks, of every origin and flavor. My favorite was the Ethiopian food truck. As far as I ever knew, there IS no food in Ethiopia. People eat truck tires and suck sap out of trees with a straw to survive. Whatever food WAS left is now sitting in this A-hole's food cart in Portland.

What trip to Portland would be complete without a trip to Powell's Bookstore? The place is like a library, with over one million titles. They do not carry the whole book, just the title.

Thursday we walked the lovely waterfront of the Willamette River, a lovely name to call your river if it’s a girl. There was a Navy PT boat being refurbished, and veteran Ron Taylor gave me a fantastic tour of the work they were doing on the hull, and of the craft's power plant. Especially intriguing was the torpedo, which had its own compressed-air turbine engine, and spun two propellers in opposite directions for stability. I tapped it on the nose with a ball-peen hammer just for fun to see if it was armed. It was, and we were all blown to smithereens.


Incidentally, Vancouver was originally known as “Gastown,” a reference to “Gassy” Jack Deighton, who ran a popular tavern in the late 1800s. I case you are wondering, his nickname referred to his talkative nature, thus the gas exited from the front.



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VACATIONING IN THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST- Part I

This year’s spring vacation to the Pacific Northwest started in Calgary. FYI, no airline will fly directly to Calgary; you have to kind of sneak up on it. We had a stopover at Salt Lake City, where we stocked up on a couple extra wives at the airport.

After a few delays we finally made it to Calgary, where we toured Prince’s Island Park and caught a birds-eye view of the city from the Calgary Tower, then had dinner and drinks at a nice sports bar, which is a total misnomer in Canada, since they only recognize ONE sport. There were approximately 200 TV screens there, all of which had the hockey game on, even though none were Canadian teams. It's amazing how much they can find to talk about in a 1-0 game.

The next morning we boarded the Rocky Mountaineer, the sightseeing train heading west to Vancouver. Through a lucky circumstance, we were literally upgraded to the upper seats of the car, with the domed plexiglass roof. As we wound our way through tunnels, bridges and outposts we took in views that you just can't fully appreciate any other way than by rail.

The majestic Rocky Mountains loomed in the distance, and soon we were chugging our way among them. We photographed a hundred beautiful panoramas of picturesque towns, mountain scenes and river valleys, each shot more gorges than the next.

Our tour guides instructed us to shout out when we saw any type of wildlife, and for a while things were so bleak that when somebody announced that there was a bee in the bathroom we all went down there with our cameras. But soon elk, osprey and eagle sightings were commonplace, and I thought I saw a black bear giving us the finger at one point.

We learned much about the history of First Passage to the West, and how difficult it was to finish the railroad that would open up trade and expansion, taking Canada from a series of fur trading posts to the series of larger fur trading posts that it now is. By the way if skunk fur ever becomes popular my house is sitting on a virtual gold mine.

We stopped overnight in Kamloops, which I never heard of, but I can tell you that whatever a Kamloop is, this place is hardly big enough for more than one. Meteorologically, it is a semi-arid desert, which means that it only rains when WE are there.

During the next day's leg of the journey it was announced that there would be a poetry contest. I figured I was a shoo-in, since I am a sensitive and subtle individual. To me poetry is a perfect art form, like jazz, where you can do whatever the hell you want and get away with it. Where else can you write some A-hole thing like, "A rose is a rose is a rose," and people think you're a frigging genius? So to make a long poem short, I won, even though I had to restrain myself from starting the poem, "There once was a lady from Dallas...."

In Vancouver, where it is extremely difficult to tell which people are the homeless and which people are simply eccentric people with no place to live and nothing to do, we took advantage of the compact downtown area to walk everywhere we wanted to go. We toured the famous Granville Island Market, with its myriad stalls and crafts shops. You hardly need a map there to get around; just close your eyes and let your nose act as your GPS. Mine directed me past the fresh fish (REALLY fresh- one tried to pinch me on the ass), through the cheese aisle (where I immediately embarrassed the guy who cuts the cheese), the florist and finally to the chocolatier! My nose is no idiot, although I did bump into three other noses headed in the same direction.

Later, we strolled through Chinatown to find a spot for dinner, even though it was past 10. Nothing was open so we asked a big, burly delivery guy where a good restaurant was. He told us to walk as fast as we could in the opposite direction- this area is “brutal!”

We took in the Eli Young Band at the Vogue theater- a good young band who has come a long way in a short time. “Follow your dreams,” Mike Eli said to the young audience who stood up for the whole performance. I would add: unless it’s the one where I fall out of the bed.


Incidentally, Chinatown in Vancouver was originally settled by railroad workers imported from California. The Canada Pacific Railroad needed 10,000 workers to complete the construction of the line, much more than the early populations of British Columbia could provide. They made a dollar a day for their toil, but it was many times more than they would have earned in their homeland. As many as a third did not live to return to China, succumbing to disease, explosives or simply the rigors of the job. The Vancouver Chinatown is considered the second largest Chinatown in North America, smaller only than New York’s. This estimation is based on population rather than height.

THE TOURIST SEASON

Every year at about this time my asthma starts acting up, my head becomes congested and my nose starts running, and I have to walk faster to keep up with it. At first I thought it was allergies, or maybe I caught a cold. With me it’s hard to tell, since I am allergic to people with colds. But then I realized the real cause: the onset of the Tourist Season. My symptoms were psychosomatic, my way of processing the misery and frustration of dealing with millions of foreigners clogging up the streets of New York City. It’s bad enough in the winter, when millions of foreigners clog up the streets of New York City- they are the ones that live here; in a month or so they’ll be gone for the summer, either to the Hamptons or upstate New York where there is an inpatient rehab facility. But for the meantime we are all here together, struggling to co-exist in a barren, post-apocalyptic world (in case you haven’t noticed I am thinking of pitching this as a movie treatment).

By the way, aren’t all head colds psychosomatic since the symptoms are all in your head?

There are several ways to recognize which people are tourists. First, they are always travelling in the opposite direction than the rest of civilized society. People say that firefighters are heroic because they are the ones rushing into a burning building when everyone else is rushing out. Well tourists are just as heroic; if a building is on fire it’s the best time to go- there will hardly be any crowds.

Secondly, they are holding an expensive camera. No native New Yorker would ever own a camera that only takes pictures and can’t call anybody. I see a dad taking a photo of the Empire State Building, but unfortunately his family is cluttering up the frame. He is struggling to get everyone in plus all 102 storeys of the skyscraper. I decide to help by telling him that he can compose the shot better if he takes the picture from Hoboken.

Sometimes I see a group that has to take five separate photos, each one missing the member that is snapping the portrait. I offer to take the photo so that they can all be in it, but they are worried that I will run off with their Nikon, so I offer to let them hold my driver’s license, which they notice is suspended. They ask if I have any outstanding warrants. Of course I am flattered, but I modestly insist that they are just run-of-the-mill.

If I am left to take their photo with an iphone, ipad or ipod, that’s where I start to worry. I can never find the ibutton that takes the ipicture, and then the iflash never goes off and i get an ilook from the wife, who is rolling her i’s at me. I heard something click- it was either me snapping the image or dialing 911. I tell them to check and see if the photo is there- if it’s not, start pretending you’re having a heart attack- I don’t have time to explain.

Thirdly, they are usually consulting a map, and often the map is upside down. The husband is pointing vigorously, and the woman is shaking her head in an exasperated fashion, the international symbol for, “That’s where we JUST WERE, you nut. I never should have married an Azerbaijan, but that’s all they have in Azerbaijania or whatever the hell it’s called.” When I see a scene like this I seize the opportunity for help, and I walk over and grab the map. I have never figured out where the subway entrance is on 57th Street, so I thank them and give them their map back.

Last and most importantly, their clothes. For instance, I see a man wearing tight blue jeans with the cuffs rolled up, carrying a purse. I ask him if he is gay or straight. He looks at me closely, assessing my appearance, attractiveness and motivation, and says, “Straight.” Then I know he is a tourist, or someone with only average taste in men.
 

Incidentally, the man who founded the taxi company that is responsible for the yellow cars that Manhattan has become famous for was none other than John D. Hertz, who went on to rental car fame. He called his yellow cab company, not surprisingly, the Yellow Cab Company. Started in Chicago in 1915, the franchise became iconic in New York City. The rumor is that Hertz, a Hungarian immigrant born Sandor Herz, read that yellow was the easiest color for the eye to see. I would have found more information on the study, had it been written in yellow.

THE BASEMENT TAPES

Sometimes people ask me if I’m in a band or doing anything musically. The answer is that I’ve been holed up in my basement recording my music. Apparently I am the only one in their basement who hasn’t killed or kidnapped anyone, but that’s mostly due to lack of space. So here is a four-song EP from the Rickster & the Nefarians basement tapes, and this is a self-indulgent blog about it. If you check them out please listen with headphones and NOT on laptop speakers, you have to promise me. My production values will suffer irretrievably otherwise.

Two of these I finally just finished; I always joke that I write the melody and arrangement of the song in about 20 minutes, then finishing the lyrics takes 2 1/2 years. I always think my lyrics are horrible, and I beat myself over the head with a two-by-four, then I hear a song by Steve Miller or Neil Diamond, with those ULTRA horrible lyrics, and I think of how much money they made, and I have to go look for the two-by-four again.

But I finally finished the lyrics, and I'll tell you a little secret: I have a new theory about writing them and it's much faster. I call it the Donald Fagen method. Lyrics in Steely Dan songs I most admire. I know them all by heart, even though I can't remember ANY words to ANY songs by anyone else, even my own. I listen to The Royal Scam, all nine minutes or whatever it is and at the end of the song I go, "Wow- that was a hell of a story. What was it again?" So my new approach is to think of a good tale to tell, then don't tell it. Let the listener figure it out. If you asked me what the song was about (I doubt you would) I would tell you, but it would probably change every time I told it.

Another thing is that I always notice that I can't sing AFTER the damn song is recorded, when it’s too late. At the time it sounds fine, usually because I have been drinking before just about every vocal track. My voice needs to be loose, like the rubber band that holds your asparagus together. Once it's loose, I realize that something like my voice should not be running around loose. On some songs I sound actually pretty good, but that is almost always in the shower, where it is dangerous to record.

The notes give me trouble are never the ones I thought would be difficult. The high note on Play it Again was the easiest one to sing on key, and a random stinking little note in the middle gave me fits and it's still not quite right.

I always thought I could sing on key, but I double my vocal tracks in who Needs Love, and I found that I couldn't sing it twice exactly the same. I ended up leaving it alone because I liked the detuned effect, kind of like a flanger.

I understand the production values are quite unprofessional. They say that only a poor craftsman blames his tools. That is only for craftsmen, not musicians of course. I blame my poor equipment for my poor sound.

The drums are the hardest to mike well; aside from the wide dynamic range, the tonal spectrum is difficult, from the bass drum to the high frequency of the cymbal's overtones. And because it's the first one you record, you have to have the whole song in your imagination before it has been recorded. Usually I play a guitar track to a metronome, then record the drums while I listen to that in my headphones.

The process of putting all the layers of the tracks together is my favorite part, and the satisfying thing is that they usually come out exactly as I have them in my head. Whatever it is in my head may be good or bad, but it's pretty cool to have something in mind and realize it to its fruition. I wish I could do the same thing with fruit.

I like the songs themselves, and the arrangements, once I get past the vocals and the non-professional sound. I include Real Life from my Real Life television cable access show from the 90's as a contrast. That was recorded in my friend Doug's studio, and mastered very well I thought. By the way I like my lead break in that one, I think it's the best one I ever did. I have to play the lead break exactly as I have it in my head, or I could never learn it- I am not a deft enough guitarist.

I do believe that in another lifetime I may have made a good producer. If I was a cat I would spend four of my lives as a producer. The first two I would spend as a tightrope walker and an explosives detonation squad member. I might as well, since I have seven other lives in the bank. People would say, "He is a damned good producer, for a cat, even though he can only communicate by taking a dump in different parts of the room and leaving us to figure out what he meant. But you can't argue with the sound."


Incidentally, the videos are silly, but you need to have something on Youtube these days to link to everything else (Blogspot does not link to MP3s for example). I wanted to do a video that would be quick and easy (they were neither). I did not show my face for obvious reasons if you have seen my face. Most of the photos in the backgrounds are pretty landscapes that my wife photographed. I would love to hear a comment if you care to leave one here or at Youtube. I understand if you cannot be reached for comment at this time.

MARCH WEIRDNESS

Every year Cinderella makes it to the ball, but it’s hard to dance wearing only one shoe. People love to root for the underdog, and then when the underdog wins they’re left with a bracket sheet suitable for doggy’s house-training. Those number two and three seeds fell like hotcakes in the first & second rounds.  You probably think I mixed up my metaphors when I mention the hotcakes but you’ve never seen me make breakfast.

By the way don’t you think Cinderella was brave to wear glass slipper? If it breaks the handsome prince is going to get grossed out by all the blood. Also unrelated: Did you ever drink champagne from a ladies shoe as a gesture of adoration? I tried it just to see without telling my wife; it was cheap champagne so the flavor was actually enhanced, but she complained about her wet shoe and I had to make something up that was even worse than the champagne. Next time I want to get romantic I’m going to make a bong out of it instead.

Anyway, everybody’s brackets were toast by the second weekend of the tournament. Ironically the shooting percentage of people hitting the wastepaper basket with their crumpled bracket sheets far exceeded that of players on the favored teams. MY prognostications, however, stood up remarkably well. I don’t like to toot my own horn unless my wife is away for the weekend, but three of my Final Four teams are in, the only one I missed being Wichita State. 14 people chose Wichita State in the semis, all moms whose sons are on the team.

March is a great time for lesser-known schools to do some much needed public relations. For instance, the last time Wichita was mentioned out loud was in 1968 during a Glen Campbell song. The school is called Wichita State, but which state? Both Texas and Kansas have Wichita Counties.

FGC hit the sports pages with stunning upsets over Georgetown and San Diego State. The school is located on the beach, and the coach is married to a former Maxim Magazine cover model. By the way, FGC stands for “Florida Golf Course.”

Then of course there are the team nicknames: some teams are named for birds, such as the Lousville Cardinals or Creighton Blue Jays. A St. Louis player is known as a “Billiken.” I’m not sure what that is, but I think I was almost attacked by one in Key West one time. St. Mary’s missed the perfect opportunity to call their team the Virgins, and settled for the Gaels instead. So many teams were named the “Tigers” that the things couldn’t possibly be endangered. Southern University fields the “Jaguars,” named after the car.

The “feel good” story of the tournament was undoubtedly the aftermath of the compound fracture to Louisville player Kevin Ware, although it probably didn’t “feel good” to him. The injury was gruesome, but his courage during the mishap showed what he was made of. Next time I don’t really need to SEE what he was made of, you could just tell me about it.

This year there were a lot of teams that realized that they were not going to get too deep into the tournament, and decided to make a big splash based on the ugliness of their uniforms. One team (it was not Army) sported a camouflage motif, as if an enemy might suddenly attack and possibly control a strategically located basketball arena. Other squads, probably with an athletic director that went to college during the ‘70s, opted for “day-glo” colors, which look particularly groovy under an ultraviolet light. These uniforms are best enjoyed in conjunction with a bag of Fritos, a Jimi Hendrix poster, and about an ounce of pot. One team, I think it was Cincinnati, debuted an outfit that looked like the players had jumped into a vat of mucilage then rolled around on the floor after a New Year’s Eve party. I was at a New Year’s Eve party this year, but I steered clear of the mucilage vat.


Incidentally, the sports team nickname for my alma mater, Syracuse, is the “Orange.” During the reign of Netherland’s King William III of the House of Orange, Albany, New York was known as Fort Orange. Nassau, Bahamas and Nassau, Long Island were also named in honor of his family’s heritage. On behalf of his wife, Queen Mary, the College of William and Mary was also endowed in 1683, the second oldest American college. Syracuse apparently had nothing to do with any of that, they just liked the color.